


Habitual

by milkandhoney



Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Gen, other characters mentioned in passing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/pseuds/milkandhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unconsciously we do the same things, over and over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habitual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaizoku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaizoku/gifts).



It’s a month before graduation when Zeke finally asks Casey about the juice boxes. The two of them are stretched out and useless on the highest part of the bleachers, lounging in companionable defiance. Apparently saving the world from alien invasion has its perks: fame, fortune, and the ability to flagrantly upend the social hierarchy without so much as a peep. To Casey it all seems like a dream, his very presence making it obvious he’s still getting used to it all, stumbling his way into the confident oil slick demeanor of Earth’s savior by way of former whipping boy. Besides, hanging around the football field is what cool people do, right? It’s kind of thing that’s expected of him now, according to Delilah and he’s not exactly opposed to playing the part. Only it’s one thing when it’s inside his head, and another when it’s out in the open where everyone who has ever shoved him into a locker or hoisted him up a flagpole is around to see it.

Each afternoon like clockwork, Harrington High’s football team will run practice drills until even the Sun admits defeat, slinking away with the rest of the Hornets under Coach Willis’ enraged scrutiny. Roughly three hours, though it only takes a few minutes sitting on the metal slates for the heat to work its way through his blue jeans, cause drops of sweat to spring on the back of his neck. Casey doesn’t bother to seek out number seventeen. Zeke is smug enough without anyone adding to the number of people vying for his attention. Casey watches as a few feet away, a group of girls crowd each other, giggling and gesturing towards the field where some of the players showboat for their amusement. He doesn’t really know why he’s here. Someone as famous and world renowned as Casey should obviously have more glamorous things to do. Playing with his camera lens in an attempt to look like someone who belongs there shouldn’t be one of them. 

Today, Zeke has mercifully decided to join him on the bleachers sooner rather than later, loping up the metal stairs two at a time. He flashes a cocky grin at the girls who glance their way before nudging Casey to scoot over. Everything is damp hair and the earthy smell of clean sweat. 

“What’d you tell Coach Willis this time?” 

Zeke removes his mouth guard, ignores the way Casey wrinkles his nose at the wet suction. “The usual. Earthquake in Cambodia. Think I left my oven on. You know he doesn’t give a shit.”

Casey snorts. “If you say so. Don’t blame me if he makes you run extra laps when you get back down there.”

“You talk to Stan yet?” 

There it is again. Casey rolls his eyes. Talking to Zeke is liable to give anyone whiplash with the speed that he changes directions. He doesn’t mind, he can keep up, but it’s not exactly a road Casey particularly wants to go down. Which is probably the reason he brought it up in the first place.

“Look, I _told_ you, I’m going to tell him but..”

“But you’re too chickenshit to do it face to face because you think he'll flip his shit.” 

The fact that they both know he’s right doesn’t stop the bristle of annoyance at the certainty in his tone. Casey watches as the other boy reclines, eyes closed, arms behind his head. Conformity will never be something he’ll get used to on Zeke. It feels unnatural, like an anomaly to be placed under a microscope and studied. The kind of thing that keeps Casey up in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep, and porn doesn’t work, and all he has are thoughts to keep him company. Maybe they weren’t the hosts Marybeth had in mind, but they’d still managed to shrug themselves into skins that may never feel right. Zeke dressed himself in the uniform Stan left behind, trying harder than any of them, because even when he doesn’t know anything, Zeke knows everything.

Casey curls his fingers and fights the growing urge to snap a photo. 

“Delilah thinks it’ll be better if he hears it from her.”

Zeke huffs. “Whatever, man. Twenty bucks says Stan doesn’t stop slobbering on Stokely’s face long enough to give either of you the time of day.”

The laughter escapes him before he can stop it. “He doesn’t slobber!” It’s another lie, but Casey is fond enough of Stan to defend him anyway. _Just not fond enough to tell him what you know._

If Zeke’s thinking the same thing, he doesn’t say it. Instead he props himself up on an elbow, eyes lazily scan the field below. Casey follows his gaze, but finds nothing down there he hasn’t seen a million times before, with the knowledge that it does nothing to hold his interest. To his left, the group of girls whisper quietly, glancing every so often in what he knows isn’t his direction. It doesn’t stop Casey from feeling guilty, and he reaches inside his messenger bag for lack of anything better to do.  
There’s an extra juice box he swiped from the refrigerator on his way out of the house that morning, accompanied by something his father had said about coming straight home. Another interview, this one with National Geographic or Rolling Stone. Who even remembers, when there’s always so many. Funny how so many people seem to want to talk to him, when his peers have settled into looking and pointing for entirely different reasons.

Casey jabs the straw into the box harder than he means to, jumping back when apple juice dribbles its way onto his jeans. Zeke’s looking at him now, eyebrows creased.

“What’s up with that?”

“With what?” Casey rubs self-consciously at the wet spot. Double checks he hasn’t spilled anything down his shirt. 

“ _That_.” Zeke juts his chin towards the box in Casey’s hand, watching the way it grows concave as he takes a long sip. “Every time I see you by yourself, you’re sucking one of those things down like you need a hit.”

“I get thirsty..?” He’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to answer the question. Last time he checked, drinking something was still a normal thing to do. Marybeth and friends were definitely into quantity, not quality. “But you’re the drug dealer, so I guess you’d know.” 

“The subconscious mind makes us do stuff when we’re not thinking about it,” Zeke continues stubbornly. “Unconscious habits.” He points to the juice box clenched in Casey’s fist like it entirely justifies his point. “Case and point.”

Casey pointedly slurps harder, making his cheeks hollow in an effort to remove all traces of liquid from the box. Zeke leans forward with exaggerated interest. 

“You know,” Casey reasons, “For someone who shit on my conspiracy theories a few months ago, you’re doing a good job of catching on.”

“What can I say, I’m a natural. Besides, I came around.”

“After stabbing Mr. Furlong in the eye with a pen,” Casey mutters under his breath. 

“What I’m saying is things are different now.” Zeke is still in his personal space, something in his brown eyes that feels more intense that usual. It’s the look he gets when something sparks his interest. An interesting passage in a book, an easy mark, or the rare and triumphant incidents where Casey (and sometimes even Stan), says something funny enough to make him crack a genuine smile. “You don’t have to do the same stuff you did when you were alone.”

Casey can feel the heat rushing to his ears, hot and flushed in a way that has nothing to do with the setting sun. He holds Zeke’s gaze like a challenge, a contest. But even now it’s a little too much for him. Something he’s still getting used to, like the journalists, and the stares, and the fact that Delilah is leaving and there is a very strong possibility he won’t know what it’s like to have that kind of contact with another person again for a very long time. It has to show on his face. Casey’s never been as good at hiding as he is at running. 

Zeke’s face softens and he draws back, looking out at the field. “Isolation is a burden, my friend.”

And there’s something in his tone that tells Casey it _is_ something Zeke would know about.


End file.
